It was in the heavy breathes you took and the hands you raised to my mother. It was in the manic voice I heard while she took it all in tears. It was in the night I hid behind my dresser, holding my sisters close while the cops came and pulled you to the ground. It was in the silence in the air that followed.

You taught me so much, father.

How to be by the ways you ripped us apart. How to be by the ways I cried, late in bed. How to be when you gave my mom kids to raise alone. How to be when you nearly killed me in your car, drugged and senseless like you always were. How to be when you forgot that I was your son.

It was in the disappointment I felt when you sided with your poorer judgment. It was in the pain I felt when you emotionally abused the ones you loved. It was in the decay of our relationship through the years, and the reconciliation of my own self-worth when it came time for me to let go of the damage you did.

It was in the time it took for me to accept my depression, rooted in the years of anger. It was in the time it took for me to interrogate my masculinity and unlearn the ways you taught me. It was in the years it took for me to understand what healthy relationships looked like, or that they could even exist. It was in the time it took for me to love.

You taught me so much, father.

How not to live. How not to be. How not to expect. How not to see. How not to lie. How not to hurt. How not to neglect. How not to divert.

I took care of my mother without you. Learned to play music without you. Climbed mountains and traveled the world without you. Went to college, found a job, and began a life without you. I did it all—all without you.

But I would never say all this just to spite you.

I say this because there are moments when the grief filters in, and I hold you, heavy in my heart, in the silence of the night, taking in the lessons you’ve taught me. And my reality is shaken each time I remember.